


It Starts with a Drink

by Kitty_Kinneas, Valmasy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6844078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_Kinneas/pseuds/Kitty_Kinneas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmasy/pseuds/Valmasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter One: Like all of Tony's questionable life-choices, it starts with a drink.</p>
<p>Chapter Two: Like all of Steve's restless nights, it ends with a nightmare.</p>
<p>Cap 3 spoilers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It Starts with a Drink

It starts with a drink.

Well, more to truth, it starts with a goddamn UN conference where Tony fights, _fights_ , to get amnesty for his friends, for the ability to bring them home. He doesn't give a damn about his own head. 

They can threaten his livelihood, his business, his _life_ , as much as they want. They won't touch him. They wouldn't dare. While they want control of the Avengers, there are so few of them left to bear the name.

But most importantly to Tony this night... It starts with a goddamn drink.

Tony stands at the windows of the penthouse suite, staring blankly at the glittering city spilling out around the Tower. In his hand, a glass tumbler bears the grip of his stress. He brings the glass to his lips and scoffs when he realizes that it's empty. 

He turns, letting his other hand drag along the window before he steps too far away towards the bar where the bottle of whiskey sits, half-empty already and damning. He toasts it briefly before pouring another three...four fingers into the glass. 

There's no one here to judge him but himself and, as he's definitely his harshest critic, he doesn't give a fuck what it says. It just so happens that he thinks he's a goddamn idiot. 

Telling himself doesn't help. The whiskey, surprisingly, doesn't either. Its burn, though, spills heat down his throat and into his gut, slushing against the mostly empty contents of his stomach. 

He grabs the neck of the bottle and weaves his way around the furniture in the common room. In his wake, ghosts of past parties taunt him with his teammates' laughter, his friends' fond voices. 

He takes a drink directly from the bottle and toasts the empty common room with a sneer as the elevator doors close on the sight.

Once down in the workshop, Tony takes a moment to breathe in the familiar, safe, atmosphere. Friday turns the lights on for him as he steps further inside, but he makes a short, grated noise in his throat. 

"Leave them off," he instructs and she obeys without comment.

Tony uses the dim, blue lights of a few of his monitors to make his way to the back of his workshop where some of his cars still sit. He slides into one of his roadsters and drags his legs up to recline lengthwise on the bench seat. Settling the bottle of liquor between his legs, he tips more of the whiskey into his mouth as he contemplates the silent, current bane of his existence. 

It's innocuous, this piece of shit flip phone. It sits on the back of the seat where he put it days ago to stare at then too. 

It's not news that he has issues within his issues, baggage that's heavy on his shoulders and bruising the soft, aged flesh beneath his eyes. It’s not news and no one would be surprised to find him where he is.

He sits there for an hour, maybe longer, drinking more and more whiskey until he's just drinking from the bottle, glass left to roll empty on the floorboard of the driver side. 

“Who gave you the goddamn right?” Tony asks at the cell phone, words heavy in his throat, weighted down by emotion. He doesn’t know why he bothers. It’s not like he’ll get an answer that way. He tips his head back against the driver door and closes his eyes.

His empty hand lands on his thigh, kneading the tight muscle there. He’s so fucking tense from stress. Though, there’s a low burn in his gut that could be fanned to something more if he chose. What he wouldn’t give to just… His fingers twitch, but nothing comes from the thought, no follow-through action. 

He’s pathetic. 

It’s been a long time since he’s needed alcohol to get an erection. It’s only fitting that he can’t even muster up the energy to give himself one now. 

He cracks an eye open and his gaze automatically lands on the cell phone. He takes another long draught of of his liquor and wriggles his way into a sitting position, one leg folded on the bench and the other extended towards the passenger floorboard. He grabs the phone and shudders slightly as he flips it open. 

“Heathen,” he mutters, eyeing the screen as it lights up at him. The clock on the screen shows military time and, according to the phone, it’s currently five in the morning wherever Steve is currently hiding. 

Tony’s not fucking stupid, even as he blinks a bit blurrily at the clock. He checks his watch, sees that it’s not even midnight for him yet. Oh, he’s about to make a very poor decision early on in his evening. 

Second poor decision. 

The burn of alcohol in his gut is the first. 

He clicks through the menu of the phone to find the contacts, like a fucking animal, and brushes his thumb over the ‘send’ button when the only contact in the list is Wing-Head. He looks at the bottle in his other hand and clicks ‘send’ before his higher cognitive functions can tell him it’s a bad idea.

The line rings and his entire _being_ is telling him it’s a bad idea, screams warnings at him that suspiciously coincide with each ring as it comes. 

After only four rings, Tony’s ready to end the call. He knows better. Steve hadn’t really meant anything by the phone. He’s pulling it from his ear just as he hears; “Tony?” in a sleep-warm voice that’s clearly ready to spring to full alertness. 

Tony chokes silently on his tongue. 

His dick is instantly hard.

This is a very, very bad idea. 

“Tony, it’s okay. What do you need?” Steve asks when Tony can only sit there and listen. He’s breathing hard, the alcohol making him slightly dizzy. “Do you need help? Are you hurt?”

“Shut up,” Tony snaps on a low growl and Steve does, amazingly. _Now_ he listens. “Who gave you the goddamn right?”

There’s a pause and the sound of shifting linen. Steve sighs, almost too low for Tony to notice. It pisses Tony off, makes him see red. He digs his hand into his thigh and his dick throbs in counterpoint. 

“Whatever this is, Tony, you should go sleep it off,” Steve says. “Don’t say any-”

“Don’t say anything I’ll regret? Oh, no,” Tony bites out. “No, you don’t get to say that to me, Steve.” And maybe his voice breaks a little on his name. “You don’t get to judge me anymore.”

“You’re right,” Steve agrees softly and Tony can almost picture him. He can picture how Steve’s probably sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted steadily, head in his hands as he listens to Tony’s drunk and heavy breath. “I never had the right, Tony.”

“Shut up,” Tony says again, digging the heel of his palm against the base of his cock. It’s an insistent pulse now with Steve’s voice in his ear. He needs to stop this. He needs to hang up.

“Tony?” Steve says into the silence, but Tony knows that even across the goddamn world on a shitty burner phone, Steve hears the pull of Tony’s zipper. His voice changes, something sad dragging at the tone. “Tony.”

“Don’t say a fucking word,” Tony hisses, getting an unsteady hand around himself and pulling his dick through the open sides of his slacks. The tip of his dick is already wet with precome. It’s stained his briefs and a silky string of it breaks its connection to the cloth when he gives a strong, tight stroke. 

The groan he gives is almost painful, the phone creaking in the grip of his other hand. 

“Tony, you don’t have to do this. We co-” Steve’s words are rushed, trying to get his thoughts in before Tony cuts him off again. Tony bets the good captain is flushing red. He thinks he could actually win that one. 

“Fuck...fuck you,” Tony breathes hotly, hips jerking up into his fist as he tips his head back against the door again. He keeps the phone pressed tight to his ear. His cock is hot against his palm and he rubs his thumb just below the head. He sucks a needy breath in and growls. “You don’t get a say in this.”

Steve doesn’t respond, but Tony can hear him breathing, needs to think it’s Steve still listening. He doesn’t… He doesn’t really understand what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, but he just… He wants Steve to ride it out, to prove that he’ll be where Tony needs him. Even if it’s just this. 

“Do you… Do you need me to…?” Steve asks, unsure and shaky in his question. Precome beads up and drips down the shaft of Tony’s cock to where his hand is stroking in short, aborted thrusts. 

Tony’s laugh answers the question, thick and wet with whiskey and tears. And he doesn’t know when he started crying, but fuck, it doesn’t surprise him. None of this really does. He’s a depraved, psychotic alcoholic taking severe advantage of his friend’s obvious guilt. 

Friend. The term burns acid down his throat and he snarls. 

“I don’t _need_ you,” Tony lies, pinning the phone between his cheek and his shoulder so his free hand can get his pants shoved over his hips. He breathes out in relief as he cups his balls, holds the weight of them in his palm as he continues to stroke his cock. “You don’t get to help. You don’t… You don’t get a choice. I’m _taking_ this from you!” 

The words are pulled from his gut with each stroke upward. He’s panting harshly, eyes squeezed shut against the dark of his workshop. 

Steve’s breath catches on the other end and Tony’s balls tighten. “I’m taking this from you,” he repeats, fisting his dick tighter and thrusting faster into it. He barely lets the head of his cock push through his fist, the skin angry and red with lust. 

His hand his drenched in precome and it’s good. It’s so fucking good that Tony’s mouth goes slack, tongue swiping restlessly along his bottom lip. He’s pushing so hard, fighting for the orgasm building in his gut, but he can’t quite reach it. His anger and selfish desires aren’t enough to push him over the edge. 

He whines, a thready, high note in the back of his throat and Steve’s breathing goes quiet. The world stills and Steve speaks. 

“I’m right here.”

Tony’s world explodes in painful pleasure, his orgasm ripping from his gut with one last stroke of his hand. He comes so hard that he curls up and in on himself, shaking and gasping as he stains his slacks, the seat between his leg, and catches the bottle that’s tipping precariously at his feet. 

His pulse is pounding in his ears, too fast, too loud. He grabs his left arm without thinking and grits his teeth as he shudders through the last of his orgasm. The phone has dropped, slipping between Tony’s hip and the car seat. 

He stares at the muffled light and reaches unsteadily for it. He can hear the tinny call of Steve’s voice. 

He clicks ‘end’.


	2. It Ends with a Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like all of Steve's restless nights, it ends with a nightmare.
> 
> Cap 3 spoilers

It ends with a nightmare.

Well, more to truth, it starts that way too.

He's had the same one almost every night. That moment in the bunker when he straddles Tony, but it's not him and he doesn't. Tony straddles _him_. Tony strikes _him_. Tony snatches up the shield, holds it high above his head. It slices down towards _his_ heart-

Steve wakes, slick with fear-sweat, blankets kicked off. He lays there for a moment as his eyes flick around his room, settling on things like his bag, his jacket over the back of a chair, his motorbike keys on the side table. The sights ground him, bringing him back to reality.

He'd seen the conference. The whole thing was streamed online, and he and the others had watched it closely. No resolution had been forthcoming before the end of the day. He doesn't know if there ever will be one.

Just like he doesn't know if there ever will be one between himself and Tony.

He keeps the phone close at all times, but Tony never calls. He's thought about calling himself, but he doesn't think he deserves it. He kept such a secret from Tony, and no matter what he tells himself, he knows it was wrong.

His fingers curl around the flip phone and he sleeps. It's restless at best, so when the phone first starts humming in his hand, he thinks it's a dream, or some half-awake wish.

He answers it anyway, sleepy and sure he's dreaming. “Tony?”

There's nothing from the other end except he thinks maybe his enhanced hearing picks up some sort of sound he can't quite interpret – perhaps a choking sound.

When still nothing is forthcoming, he ventures; “Tony, it's okay. What do you need?”

Tony doesn't answer, but his breathing is heavy and Steve starts to get worried. “Do you need help? Are you hurt?”

“Shut up.” The growling reply shocks him so much he does fall silent, and Tony speaks into it, still growling; “Who gave you the goddamn right?”

He shifts, untangling his legs from the covers and he doesn't know how to answer, partly because he's not sure what right Tony is talking about. Then, he really thinks about how Tony sounds and he sighs a little before he can control it. “Whatever this is, Tony, you should go sleep it off,” he says, a dull ache in his chest as he realizes Tony has only called because he's drunk. “Don't say any-”

“Don't say anything I'll regret?” Tony cuts in, his tone biting. “Oh, no. No, you don't get to say that to me, Steve.” Did his voice break a little on Steve's name? “You don't get to judge me anymore.”

Steve curls up a little, closing his eyes, and his throat burns. Tony is right. He made a grave error in judgement under the pretense of protecting Tony when really he was just protecting himself. And Bucky. Always Bucky, even when it maybe wasn't the right choice. It's just like he said when the whole mess started – mention Bucky and everything skews for him.

Now, Bucky’s back in cryo and Steve feels lost and alone despite the friends he still has around him.

“You're right,” he agrees, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed, head resting in his free hand. He curls his fingers in his hair, closing his eyes. “I never had the right, Tony.”

It hurts him, this rift between them. The more he thinks about the things he said and did, the choices he made, the worse it gets. And Tony's eyes haunt him, aching with three words – _So was I_.

Tony's very drunk, he's almost sure of it. He can hear it in the ragged, rough panting of his breath, even more so when he says; “Shut up.”

Steve does, waiting.

Waiting.

Then; “Tony?”

No voice answers him, but he picks up another sound, a sound he's only half-sure he hears, and yet is certain of – the sound of a zipper. He needs to stop this. He needs to hang up. Sorrow drags at his chest and his voice; “Tony.”

“Don't say a fucking word,” Tony hisses.

There is momentary silence, subtle shifting sounds then Tony gives an almost painful groan. The sound of it is long-missed and sends heat straight into Steve's gut. He screws his eyes shut and keeps his free hand pressed to his knee. “Tony, you don't have to do this. We co-” he tries hastily, feeling a flush creep up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Fuck... fuck you,” Tony breathes hotly.

Steve doesn't know what Tony is doing, but he can guess. He's seen it often enough. Tony's hand around his cock, thumb rubbing – Steve hears a needy breath and his hand on his knee fists, the heat in his gut building.

“You don't get a say in this,” Tony growls.

Steve doesn't answer, but he's still listening, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady while the ache between his legs intensifies. He feels like he doesn't deserve it, though. This is some kind of payback, which even he feels is justified, and he'll let Tony do it. He'll... “Do you... Do you need me to...?” He knows his voice is unsure. He's never done anything like this before.

There's no answer save for a laugh, thick and wet with alcohol and tears. He doesn't know when Tony started crying, but it breaks his heart, guilt washing through him thick and cloying – choking.

Tony makes an animal sound, a snarl deep in his throat. “I don't _need_ you,” he says. There's more rustling and the sound of the phone jostling. Tony must have moved it and, Steve thinks, maybe lowered his pants. He fists a hand in his hair and clenches his teeth to keep silent.

“You don't get to help. You don't... You don't get a choice. “I'm _taking_ this from you.”

And Steve can stop it. He can. He has a choice and they both must know it. He can hang up, easy as that, and end the entire thing. Tony is panting and Steve's breath catches.

He doesn't hang up.

“I'm taking this from you,” Tony repeats and Steve lets him believe it, but it isn't true. His own cock is hard in his sweatpants, but he leaves it alone, and lets Tony think he's punishing him. And maybe he is, because it hurts him to listen to the other man so broken.

But he does. He listens and tries to silently give Tony whatever solace he needs, to offer whatever it is the man's looking for. The picture in his head is so clear as Tony's breathing sounds harshly in his ear. He knows his own is a little thicker, a little harsher, but he doubts Tony notices.

Then, Tony whines and Steve almost forgets to breathe, it's been so long since he heard that sound, begging and needy. He can picture it so clearly, Tony right on the edge and just needing that little push. “I'm right here.”

He hears Tony gasping and he's pretty sure Tony dropped the phone. He shifts a little to try and ease the ache between his own legs. “Tony?” he calls after a long few moments. “Tony...? Tony are you-”

The call ends.

Steve's voice catches in his throat, his grip tightening on the phone almost enough to break it until he realizes what he's doing and gently, almost reverently, lays it aside. His hands come back to his hair, pushing into it and tugging.

He's painfully hard, but it's nowhere near the pain he heard in Tony's voice. Selfishly, though, he's glad Tony called. He's waited so long to hear his voice. Even wrecked with sorrow and drink, Tony's voice evoked sense-memory reactions, goose-pimpling his skin and stirring his cock. 

Steve presses his hand between his legs, trying to ignore or will his excitement away – he doesn't deserve it. Curling up on his side, he closes his eyes and a choked sound, some combination of arousal and horror, tears from his throat.

He wants to call Tony back but he knows he doesn't have the right.

His thoughts drift back to the sound of Tony's breathing, that needy whine, and he hasn't even thought about moving his hand when suddenly it's there, sliding inside his sweats to wrap around his cock. It's easy to slick his passage – Tony's voice and breathing have had his cock leaking for at least half the call.

His fingertips tease, twitching and stroking the underside repetitively until his hips are giving little jerking thrusts into the tunnel of his palm and fingers. He begins to stroke, dragging slowly at his cock to heighten the pain of the continued ache before he gives himself release.

This is his penance.

He feels tears slide from his eyes, dripping across the bridge of his nose and down into his hairline and he only curls up tighter, wrapping around the hollow stroking of his hand.

He presses his thumb to the tip, sobbing Tony's name, then curls his hand down to the base with a gutted; “I'm sorry.”

He keeps muttering the same three words, useless apologies and pleas to the man who has already hung up. “Tony, Tony... I'm sorry... I... I'm sorry, Tony... Tony...”

The sensations build, nature and instinct reacting to his touch with no heed for the sobbing words or the tears that soak his pillow.

Release is not the same as climax.


End file.
